


A Wonderful Omen

by MostWeakHamlets



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fall festivals, Gen, Harvest Moon AU, Human AU, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, farming au, food is love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:21:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25613494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MostWeakHamlets/pseuds/MostWeakHamlets
Summary: Aziraphale is wrapping up his first year on his grandmother's farm, happy with the people he's met and the work he's put in. But at the annual fall festival, he learns that maybe not all of his little blessings are going to follow him into the new year. Mainly the little red-haired, freckled ones.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 34





	A Wonderful Omen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [soitshaunted](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soitshaunted/gifts).



> I am insanely in love with farming sims, and I've been playing a lot of them since covid has made us all isolate. I just had to write an AU based around my childhood favorite, Harvest Moon: A(nother) Wonderful Life. The plot of that game is you inherit your father's farm and take care of it with his friend, Takakura, get married in the first year and have a kid in his little village called Forget-Me-Not Valley. I took some things from the other games in the series for this fic and kinda mashed everything together to get this. 
> 
> Big thanks to theyjustwalkrightoffthedamnthing for requesting this of me, or I would have never written it!

Aziraphale met Crowley in the lobby of the small inn with a wooden crate of carrots and celery in his arms. Carrot stalks hung over the sides like an imitation of ivy and the celery peaked over the top. It could have been a portrait painted and hung in the inn to show visitors the wholesome image of farm life. 

“Are these for the stew?” Crowley asked. He rummaged around in the crate, picking them up to examine every one and becoming well-acquainted with each beautiful imperfection. 

“They are. I saved the best-looking crops for tonight.” Aziraphale readjusted his grip so Crowley wouldn’t yank the crate to the ground in his excitement. “Do you think this will be enough for everyone?” 

“Definitely. There’s not that many of us.” 

Crowley turned to Beelzebub, who had been glowering from behind the front counter. They owned the inn with their wife, Dagon, and had “generously” allowed Crowley to stay for an entire year and a half. Aziraphale suspected that Crowley had been one of their only guests that entire time, and that “generosity” was due to a need for some sort of income. 

“Will you and Dagon be there tonight?” Crowley asked. 

“No,” Beelzebub said. They buried their head in paperwork that most definitely didn’t need doing. “Not now at least.” 

Aziraphale knew that it was a dig at him. Crowley shrugged it off as he did most insults. “Well, two fewer mouths to feed.” 

He dragged Aziraphale through the front door, holding tight to the sleeve of his flannel shirt. 

It was a chilly night, and Aziraphale regretted not grabbing blankets before he left the house. No doubt the ocean would kick up a cold breeze on the beach before the stew had a chance to warm them up. 

Crowley at least had a thick, wool-lined jacket on his thin, easily-chilled body. He was from a warmer area, he had told Aziraphale many times, and he often complained about how he settled in such a cold village for such a long time. The next place he would go would be warmer. He was ready to escape the frigid winters and falls. 

Aziraphale didn’t say anything about this “next place.” Crowley had been introduced to him as a wanderer. Nothing more than someone who traveled from town to town on his own schedule. He had great stories about where he had before, and the fleetingness of his presence did add a little appeal and mystery to him. Aziraphale had always expected that he would be gone one day, room packed up and the last payment in Beelzebub’s till. 

But Aziraphale had also begun to hope that he would stay. At least a little bit longer. 

Anathema grinned as Aziraphale set the crate down on the counter of the make-shift kitchen she was working behind. It was nothing more than an ordinary beach stand that was only ever used for seasonal events. And though it was small, there was always enough room for vegetables and meats to be prepared in giant heaps and wines to be served to the adults. 

“You could have sold those.” Aziraphale jumped and turned around. Gabriel stood behind him in his usual “too nice for farmwork” clothes and a disapproving, condescending smile. He gestured to the vegetables. “Look at the size of them! You would have gotten a decent amount in the city.” 

“But we appreciate them more than they could,” Anathema said, whisking them away. “Thank you, Aziraphale.” 

“But if you’re worried about winter, you should try to make as much of a profit as you can right now,” Gabriel said. 

Aziraphale knew that he was right. Winter meant no crops. And no crops meant all of his farm’s income would have to be from chicken eggs, milk from his one cow, and whatever preserves he could make from the produce he had frozen throughout the year. It wouldn’t go a long way, and he was preparing for long months of no luxuries and careful budgeting to ensure animals were fed and kept warm. 

“I’m not so worried that I can’t spare a few vegetables for the community,” he said with a nervous smile. “I can manage that much.” 

“Yeah,” Crowley chimed in. “A few lost pounds is a small sacrifice for a good stew.” 

Gabriel’s smile turned to a scowl. “Just be prepared for the spring, Aziraphale. Take this seriously.” 

When he walked away, Aziraphale let the tension out of his shoulders and allowed himself to breathe. He wrung his hands together, rubbing his fingers against his palms and knuckles.

“He shouldn’t tell you how to run your farm,” Crowley said, leading Aziraphale to an empty bench in the sand. It was rotting and splitting, but it somehow supported their weight with no complaint or wobbling. It was little things like that that made Aziraphale believe that the village had magic tucked into every corner. “It’s  _ your  _ farm.” 

“I think he’s a little put out that he didn’t get to sell the property to someone in the city.” 

Crowley wiggled and pulled his jacket tight around him, shoving his hands under his arms. “It’s your family’s property. He’s just the asshole who hoped no one would do anything with it.” 

Aziraphale didn’t say anything more. He knew that he had ruined Gabriel’s hopes of flipping the land. The farm had sat alone for years after Aziraphale’s grandmother died, collecting rodents and sitting as nothing more than a relic in the village. 

It was decent land if it could be cleaned up, but Gabriel insisted in a dozen letters to Aziraphale that it wasn’t worth trying to save. It had gone too long without any proper care, he wrote, and the magic was gone. Gabriel offered to buy it off of him (with the secret intentions that he would have it fixed up and sell it to a corporate farm) rather than let it be his problem any longer.

Of course, the letters had made Azirpahale feel sympathetic for that unloved house and battered barn rather than appalled. He had told Gabriel that if it was so poorly, he would make things right again. All it needed was someone to put a little effort and love into it.

“Are you really worried about the winter?” Crowley asked. 

“Oh… not really. Well, a touch. There won’t be that much money coming in, but I’ll manage. There’ll be enough to keep the animals fed and my gas on. And on the positive side of things, I’ll have an awful lot of free time without the crops to look after!” 

“What are you going to do?” 

“I’ll probably catch up on reading.”

“Right. You’re a bookworm. But what else? You can’t spend every minute reading.” 

Aziraphale certainly could. “I might learn to bake a little. Or look into getting a new coop built in the spring. Or make arrangements to get another animal for the barn. I’m not sure. I’ll have plenty of time to decide. What do you do around here with all of your free time?” 

“I draw.” Aziraphale knew this. “I’m mostly lazy.” 

“Ah.” 

“But I might spend a lot of this winter packing.” 

“Packing?”

Crowley looked straight ahead. 

In the middle of the beach was a roaring fire with a comically large pot on top. Anathema dumped a cutting board full of Aziraphale’s carrots and celery as kids ran around her, asking if her witch’s brew was near done. The aroma carried all the way to their bench and swirled around them. Aziraphale’s mouth watered, and his stomach growled. 

“I’m trying to leave by spring,” he said. “There’s a small town about an hour away that apparently has a great art market.” 

Aziraphale stared at his profile—his long nose, his prominent chin and cheekbones. His hair was down, and the wind occasionally blew it away from his face before settling it back down. The waves which were neat on most days were a mess and pulled apart and tangled together with sand. Aziraphale imagined him taking a hot bath after they ate, knees pulled up to his chest in the small bath and steam rising up off the water, scrubbing his hair until it was back to its usual cleanliness. 

“I didn’t realize you wanted to leave.” 

“I’ve always thought about leaving, but,” Crowley shrugged, “now feels like a good time. I’ve been here for too long. You know, things get boring. I need to see new things.” 

“Aren’t I new?” 

Crowley smiled. “You’re grand. But you’re not new anymore.”

“I’m sure there’s a lot of things you don’t know about me. You can’t know someone that well after less than a year.” 

“I know that you like to read. And I know that you like to give your animals silly names like your cow, Pear. I know that you found a dog your first day here, and I know that you come from a big city where you wanted to own a bookshop but never did.” 

“That’s all superficial.” 

“I know that you take your tea with two sugars and you like strawberry jam on your toast. I know you get a pale ale at the bar on Saturdays. I also know you want a sheep on your farm so you can sell wool and commission a sweater for yourself. I know that you sleep on your left side or your back. And I know how you broke your arm as a kid.” 

Aziraphale huffed. There wasn’t much more to know about him if Crowley had remembered how he slept. 

“Alright. That is a lot. But I don’t know that much about you.” 

Crowley waved his hand. “Not much to know.”

“I’d like to learn anything I can.” 

“It’s all boring stuff.” 

But what a privilege it would be to learn the boring stuff that made up Crowley’s life. Aziraphale wanted to know what his parents did for a living and what his favorite childhood dish was. He wanted to study how he held a pen when writing letters home and how he stood in front of his wardrobe every morning before picking out his outfit for the day. He wanted to memorize how he pulled his hair into a bun and where he laid his hot water bottle in bed. 

He  _ wanted  _ to know the boring stuff. He wanted to know every little speck of detail—good and bad—that made up Crowley. And he certainly didn't want all those things to leave. Selfishly, he wanted those things to carry into the new year and accompany him to the bar and take walks with him to the swamp and dine with him in the city when money was good. He couldn't imagine who else he'd do any of that with. He would certainly be very lonely.

“I doubt it’d be boring to me.” 

“Don’t set yourself up for disappointment.” Crowley glanced at him and quickly turned back to watching Anathema and Newt stir the pot. “Oh, I think the stew is done.” 

They stood in line as Anathema and Newt poured ladles full of stew into bowls held by eager hands and returned to their bench. Aziraphale paid close attention to how he gripped his spoon and took a testing sip of the broth before taking his first bite, heaping with veggies and beef. 

“Your carrots taste nice.” Crowley’s voice was muffled by his full mouth. 

“Thank you!” 

Aziraphale bit into a sizeable chunk of beef. It was tender and warm juices spilled out which he eagerly swallowed. He scooped more stew into his spoon. The carrots were soft but just a tad firm still, and the potatoes mashed pleasantly in his mouth. The broth was hot and robust with seasoning. It was a touch salty, a touch spicy, and a touch herby. It tasted like something beyond food and resembled something closer to emotions than an ordinary stew. It tasted like something a child would grow up with, always associating with family and safety and warmth.

It was another piece of magic. Stew had no right being so good when it was cooked on a beach in a giant pot over an uncontrolled fire. 

“What do you think?” Crowley asked. 

He handed Aziraphale a napkin. Aziraphale didn’t realize that he had broth dripping down his chin and dabbed it away, embarrassed. 

“It’s good, isn’t it? I don’t know how they do it. Apparently Anathema’s family been hosting this for years. So whatever it is, they have the secret.  _ Personally _ , I suspect witchcraft, but she says it’s just a secret blend of herbs. If you want more, there’s always plenty. They’ll probably send us all home with a few bowls, anyway.” 

Crowley pressed his lips to the bowl and tipped it back, swallowing the finals mouthfuls of broth and then mopping the insides with his bread. Aziraphale couldn’t understand how he ate so fast. Meals were to be enjoyed and savored over time. Especially  _ good  _ ones. They weren’t to be gulped down without any contemplation. 

Good things needed time. They needed appreciation and nurture. 

Beef practically fell apart in Aziraphale’s mouth. Vegetables caved in under his teeth. 

It was the best meal he had all year and though he had arrived a little tired and sore from working all day, all of his fatigue and aches were gone as he finished his own bowl after careful, small, well-balanced bites. 

“I probably would have left by now if you hadn’t shown up.” 

Crowley was looking away again. He watched the children laugh and build up piles of rocks and branches by a pile of debris. It wasn’t a pretty beach, but it did its job for the community. 

“What?” 

“I was thinking about moving, and then Beelzebub told me that someone was finally going to use the old farmland for, y’know, farming. Gabriel thought he had convinced you to sell it to him, and I wanted out before I watched him sell it to some restaurant chain or… whatever. But then you moved in, and I didn’t need to rush anymore.” 

“So, you leave places before they have the chance to disappoint you?” 

Crowley grimaced and shrugged. “I guess. Don’t like thinking about it like that, though. I think every place loses its magic after about a year. Then, it’s just boring.” 

“Oh, I don’t think this place could ever lose its magic.” 

“Don’t know. But I’m going to leave before I find out.” 

“You can’t just live on that philosophy. You can’t avoid settling down somewhere forever.” 

“I have so far.” Crowley stood. “I’m heading back to the inn. It’s too damn cold down here.” 

He took his bowl and collected their used napkins. Aziraphale stood with him, finding little reason to stay if Crowley wasn’t going to be there. 

“Thank you for accompanying me,” he said. 

“Not a problem. Figured we’d both be here anyway.”

They passed the families and Gabriel and Anathema and Newt. All people who had been content living in the little village, building their lives around one another and never once seeming to be anything less than content with what they had chosen for themselves.

Aziraphale and Crowley walked to the entrance of the beach together and with little smiles, headed their separate ways.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're interested in reading more of this AU, I have some little things up on my Tumblr, mostweakhamlets, under the "farming au" tag! It's not a lot, but there's a bit more about their lives after this.


End file.
